


A Fistful of Tears, A Bagful of Laughter

by SkyHighDisco



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst, CHM Secret Santa 2020, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Written for CHM Slash Secret Santa Challenge 2020. Based on the prompt that went:pre-Christmas-bedlam, they are stressed. With the situation, with each other (maybe covid related), but no matter the hassle they care for each other and there's a christmassy happy ending.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/Richard Hammond/James May
Comments: 12
Kudos: 7





	A Fistful of Tears, A Bagful of Laughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrunkGerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrunkGerbil/gifts).



> For dear Resri and I would've written it thousand times more, it was such an honor and fun to write for you. I already had the pleasure to read your wonderful reaction, but I'm putting it here, anyway, with some grammar faults corrected. <3
> 
> Fact: The "thought-up" verses James is quoting after the other two leave his house and at the end actually come from the refrain of a deceased Croatian singer and songwriter (Oliver is his name, ironically)'s song "Ča Je Život Vengo Fantažija?" (What Is Life But A Fantasy?). It includes the story name as well. :)

* * *

James May has been having a great time feeling miserable on his own. Just fine. Hiding under the duvet in his bed and suffering all night in some half-state he is feeling too betrayed to call sleep. His eyeballs are hurting with every blink so he decides it’s best to keep them closed and he can’t remember what it feels like to use two nostrils. He also feels like there are at least ten Jeremys sitting on top of him, and no, it isn’t funny because he can barely move when he has to go to the throne. He can’t even eat normally, what with a sore throat, what with the fact his stomach has decided it’s shrunk to the size of the pea.

Flu must have something about it that makes people stupid as well as feeling like crap because for some reason at some point, James can’t remember when, he had told the other two about it.

There’s a sound of twisting lock followed by door hitting the stopper with urgent violence and James’ eyes painfully snap open but before his even more slowed down brain can start to worry about possible intrusion, a booming voice immediately introduces itself, “Oh, Christ almighty, it’s cold!”

Tension is immediately replaced by an annoyed groan that shook the already persistent headache through the clogged sinuses and James would have buried himself deeper in the cushions if he wasn’t already completely covered. He listens helplessly to the unfolding noises.

“Outside is horrible enough, but I expected at least a little bit of warmth when swapping it for inside, and the bastard doesn’t even turn the heating on!”

_Headache is pounding  
Cut off ape’s plums when I can  
Where’s the other one?_

“Well, maybe he’s heated it upstairs. Or he’s in the garage so he doesn’t care.”

Cock. There he is.

James unleashes another groan which his throat complains about by unleashing a violent coughing spasm. And there goes his hope the intruders might suspect he’s already dead and turn around with a casual ‘anyway—’.

He hears Richard saying something very similar to ‘’I’m detecting life up there” before quick steps softly thump up the carpeted steps to the top floor and grow in volume as they make a beeline for James’ room. The parquet to the entry squeaks ominously, betraying his presence.

“Jeremy! I found a suspicious lump here.”

Despite Richard yelling out the door, James still flinches at the suddenness of the volume and cringes under the sheets, now unmistakeably losing every shard of potential peace.

“Don’t touch it, for goodness’ sake, heavens know where it might’ve… Oh, it’s just James.”

“Have you two come to slander the state of my house?” mumbles James, deciding he wouldn’t like to repeat himself if the others didn’t catch the words.

“Among everything else. Are you aware of how empty your fridge is?”

James shifts his sore hands under the sheets to cover his ears; even at reasonable volume Clarkson’s voice hurts.

“And how unbusy your heating is?” agrees Richard.

James pushes himself off his palms and the duvet slides off his head, revealing a mop of tousled nest of grey hair, but it’s when he turns around to give them a look and squints against the piercing, painful light outside the window and shudders against the warned cold that Jeremy and Richard jump away, Jeremy being surprisingly more expressive in his gesture.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

“Oh, mate…” winces Richard sympathetically, which is a feature James isn’t used to and most certainly doesn’t need right now. “I know you said you were sick, but I thought you were just being dramatic.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Hammond, but I really don’t need it right now. What I would greatly appreciate and need is if you two could kindly go away.”

As annoyed and threatening as he wanted to sound, James doubted he managed to achieve either of those effects. His scratchy sore throat, full sinuses and shortage of breath are frankly weak barriers against the lack of rational comeback and witty judgement he would usually be able to provide.

“You baffling moron”, Richard shakes his head and James isn’t quick enough to dodge the back of a hand coming to rest against his sweaty forehead and he is even less able to resist slightly leaning into the cool touch which feels so relieving in contrast to his ignited skin. Two seconds later it’s gone and James vaguely acknowledges Richard hissing. “You’re the side of the volcano about to erupt.”

“Not”, James mumbles, turning around and sitting against the headboard, carefully rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands, minding the current delicacy of his sinuses.

He hears footsteps disappearing out of the room and by the lightness concludes they can’t possibly be the ape’s. But when the big oaf speaks, his voice is surprisingly softer. Mindful. Unsuitable.

“Were you going to stay under there until you died?”

“Perhaps.”

“So if we didn’t start to arrange an office meeting for post-New Year via texts, you would continue to suffer in silence here?”

“Quite.”

“Not that I’m complaining, of course. A rendezvous without your lengthy discoursing is almost flattering.”

Richard’s messy mop pops back into the room.

“Where are your meds?”

“What meds?”

“You don’t have any meds?”

James makes a noise that comes all warped through his nose. His palms, which were cupping his face until then, slide down to reveal an incandescent frown that immediately gets tended to with massaging fingers of the right hand.

“God, James. ‘Self-care’, rings a bell?”

Another incoherent noise which Richard overhears because he thumps downstairs as quickly as he’s climbed up. Jeremy takes a moment to observe the living dead who has gone back to warmth and darkness under the duvet. “Tea?” he offers.

James manages to extend an arm from the shelter to inconsequentially wave Jeremy off, and the older man decides to take it as a yes, backing away from the room to join Richard downstairs, shivering with cupping coldness of the interior.

On the ground level, Richard is skedaddling around the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards, up in arms about the lack of content in them.

“He isn’t normal. Not even an ibuprofen”, he fusses, pulling the tea kettle out of a cupboard — he has to get on his tiptoes to reach, which Jeremy is surprised he still finds adorable as the first time he’s seen it after all these years — filling it with aggravated, foaming pillar of water and placing it onto the stove rather violently.

“Hammond”, Jeremy is unsure whether to take a step forward or back. The pressure of Richard’s aggravation matched the one of sink water. “It’s just flu. He isn’t dying.” James’ swollen, squinting, pale face surfaces easily in Jeremy’s mind. _I think._

Richard frowns at him; his fingers tighten and flex methodically against the cold. “I’m pretty sure, Jeremy, even you would have that much brain to take care of yourself at least a little bit. Otherwise I wouldn’t be filling up this kettle.”

“He’s a grown man, Hammond.”

“And he’s alone”, Richard snaps back. He is looking at the hissing stove, the only other sound besides the ticking clock in the house. His hand flies up to push his hair back which cockily comes back to where it had been, ruffled-up as ever. “No one should be alone when sick.”

Richard looks at him with glistening eyes. Jeremy decides that he’d definitely take a step forward only for that look, but he chooses to squint and analyse it first.

“Rich… what’s it really about?”

Richard’s eyes change tune to the one of an innocent, kicked puppy. Something not difficultly achievable and just as efficient on his face since day one.

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow…” he sighs, looking glum and a little depressed, stabbing Jeremy with that gaze yet again. “Have you seen how empty his house looks?”

Jeremy doesn’t have to look to know what he is referring to. He’s seen it out of the corner of his eye when he first stepped in. The cold bleakness of the place, having nothing to do with temperature. It’s late afternoon and the sun has sunk, leaving its rays to illuminate Earth for a while longer, so the house is darker than usual — and there are no strings of Christmas lights to illuminate it, the limestone fireplace is out, the television and radio are dead.

“I don’t think that’s his biggest concern now, Richard”, says Jeremy mildly.

“But it might help”, insists Richard more eagerly reaching for the box of an exotic tea made out of some South American plant of the name he couldn’t pronounce. “Tell you what, I’ll go get groceries and I obviously don’t need the list because the place is bloody empty. Might stop by a pharmacy while I’m at it.”

Jeremy nods, licking his lips and fairly swiping his gaze around the increasingly darkening interior. Its gloominess is highly contagious and Jeremy feels his body slumping with fatigue and misery.

“Jez”, a whisper.

He finds it easier to face Richard again than he thought. The huge dark eyes tell the whole story. Still, a verbal inquiry is here, “Please?”

And Jeremy takes a moment for himself to savour those eyes before nodding accordingly.

“Are you two still here?” asks a crackling, dry voice of which all ‘t’s are turned to ‘d’s by full sinuses. “You pair of clots, have you not anything better to do?”

James is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a blanket wrapped around himself consisted of dense patterns in colours of questionable choice Jeremy wouldn’t normally hesitate to make fun of. He looks even more dishevelled, appearing to have lost his way from a pack of vagrants and looking like their supreme lord of sorts with the cape-like blanket.

“Tea is almost ready”, announces Richard.

It doesn’t brighten James’ expression. If anything, it grows even sourer, like his kitchen is occupied by a pair of cockroaches. “Why do you always have to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong? I could’ve done that myself.”

“I deduce your state to be more inconvenient than that”, sniffs Jeremy in an attempt to appear more like his usual self. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised you managed to descend the stairs.”

“I was sleeping, you muppet! And I would’ve kept doing so if you two hadn’t decided to barge in like a pair of charging rhinoceroses.”

Getting worked up launches James into another coughing fit which propels him towards the living room, blanket-cape dragging behind him across the floor; something a healthy James wouldn’t tolerate.

“Why are you so angry with us? We’re here to help” Jeremy adopts a whiny tone, which is a two-way street when it comes to James’ reaction.

“Did I bloody ask for it?” is certainly a response belonging to one of them.

“Don’t be an old lady”, Richard reaches for banter to try and smooth the sticky atmosphere. He dips the teabag into the steaming water and retracts to the living room where James is sitting on the sofa, head hidden among hands. So Richard disposes of the mug on the table. “Do you prefer thick or clear soup?”

“I prefer your annoying voice as far away from my house as possible”, comes a muffled response.

“You’re right. I’ll take both”, answers Richard more to himself than acknowledging James, muttering grocery necessities under his breath while walking to the hallway, shouldering on a jacket, tucking on a fur-framed hat and tripping over himself while pulling on the boots. “Be back before you know it!”

“Please don’t”, yells James at the closing front door, immediately regretting it as vengeful pain rakes through his throat like a swarm of wasps and the tickling sensation building below it begging for a cough isn’t fulfilled out of fright of making it worse.

Jeremy saunters over, picking up the remote from the coffee table and turning the television on, tongue unconsciously sticking out. The volume, thankfully, isn’t terribly loud.

Nevertheless, James’ mouth immediately razes open. “What the bloody hell are you doing? Turn that off.”

“Try being a bit less of a prick to someone who is actually trying and I might consider it.”

Hands slide off James’ face to uncover an expression made more displeased by the contrast between dark bags under his eyes and the pale complexion of his sweat-covered face. “So sorry, you haven’t earned an upgrade from big cock treatment, yet.”

Jeremy frowns. “But you always treat me like that.”

“I think you two are spoiling my time enough when I’m forced to spend it with you and now you’re just here for no other reason than to drive me up the bloody wall just like you always do.”

Jeremy presses his lips together in a rare way that said that the next thing to come out of his mouth isn’t a joke or sarcasm anymore. “I was talking about Richard. But if you’re going to tar us with the same brush, then whatever you’ve picked up has made you denser than I thought.”

“Alright. Let’s play trivia. Clarkson — when was the last time I barged uninvited into your house when you were sick while simultaneously complaining about the temperature and the state of your house? You’re right it’s never because I don’t shove my nose where it doesn’t belong not even when I’m utterly bored with my life. I’m going to be perfectly fine when I sleep it off, and I would’ve been at it already if I your mouth wasn’t opening in my immediate vicinity. Sod off.”

Any attempt at reasonable or a response of any use was utterly futile, hence Jeremy’s mouth opening and closing soundlessly like Nutcracker soldier’s. It clamps shut eventually and the curtain falls.

“You know what? I don’t have to talk to you”, he grumbles on his way into the anteroom, grateful for his long legs which quickly covered distance, grabbing his dark red duffle coat. “Call if you need _after_ you let off all that steam. Hope you throw up all over your beloved carpet.”

“Thank you kindly, and do me a favour — cause an accident. Kill yourself.”

The front door slams shut, much more violently than at Hammond’s departure and a brief surge of satisfaction hushes the infernal headache. James sighs against temporary relief just to bask in the first whiff of silence, but the exhale is followed by augmented, vindictive Thor’s hammer ramming against his sensitive nerves.

James reaches for the remote Jeremy had thrown by his side in his sulky anger, but his finger hesitantly hovers above the on/off button. In a way, the commercials’ enthusiasm clashed against every hot and languid aspect of the flu, deterring James’ concentration away from it rather than picking out everything that made it worse in complete silence. But instead of admitting it was Jeremy’s favour, James naturally praises his own wit for coming to said realization.

“Time is running, cat is whining”, he mumbles into the tea, finally in silence and solitude. “Love is lasting, vast and poor.”

* * *

Richard knows he should be well accustomed to James’ rudeness to be practiced in it not getting to him. And so far he’s been doing a pretty good job.

But while he’s walking down the snowy street, there is unpleasant heaviness in his chest that he is managing to push down only by concentrating on walking as carefully as he can on slippery surfaces. He came with Jeremy, and since what Jeremy is hopefully going to do requires something much more than bare hands, it’s probably the only solution for the older man to take the car. Richard didn’t even ask.

After all, what’s one grocery run? People do it on foot every day.

The snow is falling heavily enough to have to squint, but the kids are being towed on plastic sleighs behind their parents along the street with giggles emerging from broad grins plastered across their faces. At least someone is having fun, then.

The ornaments and lights adorn the light posts and shops. The world is full of colours, wreaths, lights, and Santa hats. Promises of white Christmas is only fulfilling the mood and Richard feels the unpleasant heaviness lift bit by bit, observation by observation, being replaced by increasingly good mood. If it hopefully continues like this and James gets well as soon as possible they could all take a walk around London and go to Thames for New Year’s Eve.

Hypermarket’s a bit far. But there’s a large supermarket several turns down that should do the trick. Richard is inwardly repeating the list, humming it in an inexplicit melody through his nose as he makes his way down the sidewalk with tiny, quick steps.

And then the moment he steps into the store, things go downhill.

It’s crowded, of course it is, and Richard shivers down the images of American Black Fridays.

Thoughts just begin to link one onto another like protein cells. He goes into the tea section first and collects two boxes of fine Earl Grey. Hesitates, then picks two more at random. Jar of honey next. Ginger. Some lemons would do as well. And oranges. Soups. Two packages may not be enough. Make that four. No, six. _Just_ to be sure. Not sure if he has enough tissues, too.

Ah, yes, but neither James nor they can live on remedies. There’s more to health than teas and soups. Concrete, warm meal would be alright as well.

When he passes the wine section with hands completely full, Richard deflates.

Right. Time to go back and grab the basket.

He reaches the entrance just in time to see an elderly woman grabbing the final one. No trolley, no baskets.

But there are two tiny rainbow-coloured kiddie trolleys left.

Richard sags. The movement causes a box of tea to fall out of the heap in his arms.

Yup. It’ll have to do.

He’s hopeful about his huge hat hiding his embarrassed face as he makes his way through the store, suddenly wishing to get out as soon as possible, despite pleasant warmth in contrast to the outside. Because one snitch of a wheel is traitorously squeaking like a baby meerkat, attracting curious and amused glances.

He makes the cash register in record time with a tower of things in a tiny trolley.

The lady asks if he needs a bag. Probably automatically since a sight of the scanned things is enough to make a reasonable man squint and not even the biggest man in the world could carry those in his arms.

Richard asks for two.

Only when he’s out of the store and the sky had completely darkened already he realizes he should’ve hit the pharmacy first. Bags are heavy and straining in his hands and going through crowded streets is much more difficult than it was on the way here.

Richard is in pain very soon. He is starting to sweat from the heaviness now and does his best that it doesn’t show on his face.

Half-panting, he reaches the pharmacy in a few minutes, glad he’ll be able to rest his arms at least for a little bit; the thinning plastic handles are starting to cut into the palms of his gloved hands.

When he’s at the door about to push them with his shoulder, Richard’s face falls.

Closed.

It’s closed.

He checks his watch, checks inside, looks around, but neither of those give him a reason why would a pharmacy be closed on 23rd of December. Maybe it’s lunch break.

But it’s after six p.m.

Realizing his mental search for reasons isn’t going to push open the door, Richard emits another sigh, a cloud of visible breath. Well, if it isn’t this one, there has to be another. 

“Right”, he breathes, taking a firmer hold of the bag handles and hoping to find luck further away. Even as he has no free hand to pull his phone out to check on the map for the nearest one.

Luck doesn’t have him on its list today, as it seems.

It’s a dangerous squeak of plastic first. Richard adjusts his grip, and it happens.

Like the damn scene in “ _Home Alone_ ”, the bottoms of both bags give in at the same time and the contents are vomited out onto the snowy concrete. Glass shatters, plastic packaging topples all across the sidewalk and onto the road. Richard’s arms stop complaining instantly.

He stands there on the left side of the walking lane (luckily not as crowded) in disbelief and helplessness that freeze his lungs more than cold air will ever manage. His breath cools in the air about three, four, five times before Richard gains back the ability to move, leaning over carefully to start picking things up that aren’t cracked like this jar of honey with golden ooze pouring out and melting the snow to take its place.

Now. Black ice is the cruellest thing winter can produce. You can’t see it, but it’s always all too happy to see you.

So Richard confidently takes a step to pick up the can of spam.

His footing slips.

He’s wide-eyed on his back on heavy concrete faster than he can blink, all air pushed out of his lungs, trying to wrap his mind around if this really just happened.

After he gathers his breath back, Richard hurriedly sits up, gritting his teeth and silently cursing the pain zipping through the back of his head and too suborn to leave despite inflicted friction by his rubbing hand.

After making sure he can count all fingers on his hands, say a tongue twister and his full name, he tries to scramble to his feet to save whatever is left to save from the road.

Luck decides to hold out a leg from behind the corner for him to trip over one more time.

Somehow he doesn’t hear the sound of the roaring engine, but he does hear a blaring horn and looks up just in time to get splattered with a nice splash of dirty slush by the wheels of the merciless passing bus.

Kneeling in the melting snow, Richard spits out the disgusting mixture that somehow manages to end up in his mouth and rubs the filth out of his eyes before blinking them open.

Gone. The ham, the spam, the lemons, the bottle of wine… all smashed and ran over. Turned to gush. The rest is either broken or spilled all around him.

Disbelief suddenly becomes a term too mild for the sorry sight. He lets out the nth sigh that day, this one possibly the most miserable of all because never in his life has Richard felt more pathetic and more useless. What kind of a friend is he if he can’t get James what he needs?

He vaguely becomes aware of an elderly gentleman asking if he is alright and trying to help him up. Richard can’t even remember if he’d thanked the man before he left in hurried pursuit for other engagements while Richard continues to stand there miserably, watching the remains of his misfortune scattered around him like a tragic character in a Shakespearian play.

Then suddenly he straightens up and misery gives place to defiance in the dark, cleared eyes. Who was he to give up? Certainly not Richard Hammond. That one doesn’t do that. Especially not where his friends are concerned.

Tucking his furry hat further down his head, he turns from the mess and walks down the street, this time minding the sketchy-looking parts of the sidewalk like a hawk.

Guess God’s trying to tell him he should have gone to pharmacy first.

* * *

Manual labour.

Jeremy hates it.

But this time, he’s asked for it. Nobody’s fault but his.

At first he drives aimlessly, still sulkily steaming about previous argument out of which Richard appeared to escape in time unscathed.

Appeared.

Determined snow is piling onto the previously plowed streets turning them into white carpets lined with linearly spaced tire tracks. And that means wipers-swished, slow driving. Very slow. Which Jeremy doesn’t do. And it only spoils his mood even more.

Probably taking the same paths multiple times, Jeremy tries to decide whether a sick James is worse than a hungover James before quickly concluding they are around the same level of lethal. Just that sick James is a bit more contagious.

He wonders what to do next. Definitely not going back. Or to his flat, it’s too cold and by the time it’s heated up, he’ll be in the same snotty, coughy state as May.

Richard’s huge-eyed pleading face resurfaces in his mind and Jeremy nearly slides off onto the curb, taking a dozen or so pedestrians with him and he has to maniacally roll the wheel left and right to correct the tires.

Jeremy sighs a deep torturous sigh. Never give promises you can’t keep, and especially never give promises you’d most certainly want to avoid.

“I swear Hammond”, the oldest mumbles to himself, now crawling along the streets and taking turns with obvious purpose. “I’ll get so weak-kneed one day that having my legs severed halfway will be the only optimal solution left if he doesn’t turn out to be the death of me before that.”

It is with such thoughts that Jeremy finds himself on the fir market. It’s probably the biggest in London, a huge open space made even more claustrophobic by the fact that there’s probably more people than the trees. Last-minute buyers. Jeremy shouldn’t mock them, but then he isn’t doing this for himself so that shouldn’t count.

It’s only there that a light bulb blinks over his head and the grin that crosses his face is somewhere between wicked and smug.

He finds the first unoccupied seller and approaches him with a simple request for his cunning plan: “Give me the biggest bloody tree you have.”

The old sport is all too happy to oblige and the amount of paper credits in Jeremy’s wallet is halved by the time he makes his decision. And it’s so large that it takes four men, Jeremy — huffing, buckling and muscle-straining — included, to take it to his car and an uncountable amount of minutes to strap it against his roof. Even then, the tip and the back of the tree protrude comically over the front and back of the car, but Jeremy doesn’t care.

It’ll probably bend against the ceiling and shed more pine needles than the forest floor. Driving even more carefully down the streets, Jeremy tells himself it’s worth it to rile up James.

Nothing else.

* * *

James’ headache seems to increase by the minute and rubbing his forehead and temples and stuffing himself with tea doesn’t seem to do it anymore. But inwardly cursing everything and everyone does. So he resolves to do just that: he checks off anyone he can think of, including his co-workers, his family, that pair of sods greeting each other so happily in the street and their noisy dogs, even this stupid talk show with a completely unintelligent host and what seems to be a very sappy, all-smiley guest.

He throws his head back against the sofa’s headrest, fighting against a provocative sneeze and another series of coughs which act like a mallet against his pounding sinuses and pressing, rising nausea, gathering forces at the pit of his stomach. As runny as it is, James tries to draw regular breaths through his nose, hoping to calm down, tired and exhausted. Trying to breathe as deep as possible, he allows the sounds of the telly to lull him to sleep.

“Are you fully prepared for Christmas?”

“Most certainly.”

“Have you got your hands on gifts yet?”

“Well… no, actually, since this year had been less merciful we couldn’t afford them.”

“Oh. So what are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well – it _is_ the time of giving. How do you claim to be prepared for Christmas if you have nothing to give?”

A pause from the guest. James’ ears perk up, intrigued as to whether the response to this bumbling idiot’s cheeky prodding would be equally half-witted or he’d brush his shoulders off and change the topic.

It was neither.

“That’s not how it works. That’s not how any of it works.”

“What do you mean?” The host.

“Everybody’s become so obsessed with it. Stressing about where to go and what to buy because it’s by some unwritten law turned mandatory. Am I inclined to be unsuitable to celebrate Christmas the same way my neighbour who makes 50 000£ a year does because he has no concept of an empty pantry? The material becomes immaterial. We aren’t aware of the things we have. The telly to watch this show, the roof over our heads, the warm beds. People we love.

My wife has sadly abandoned us seven months ago. She wasn’t strong enough this time. That’s where all the money has left. Medicine and treatment. This will be the first Christmas without her. But would she want us to skip it because she isn’t hurting anymore and is having the best time of her life? I would like to think not.”

James straightens up, pushes his back away from the sofa. By now the television has gotten attention of more than his ears. The tea is turned cold already, disregarded on the coffee table.

“We live in a world that’s moving faster and faster. The truth is, we don’t really have a bad year, or a bad day, or a bad life. Just bad moments. And it’s alright because it _is_ life. Just as long as we are close to our beloved. It sounds cheesy, I know, but solitude and loneliness are two very different things. So to everyone in the studio and on the screens — be healthy and safe. And be with people you love. Make peace if you have a quarrel with someone. Please. You never know how long you have left with them. That’s all you need. Everything else, gifts, lights competitions, over-the-top dinners where leftovers are thrown in garbage, it’s less important. Believe me.”

James stares right through the screen, sound of applause and sign-off music floating around his mind indefinitely.

Then he winces so suddenly it’s a good thing the half-full mug is on the coffee table. His lungs compress, but it isn’t a coughing fit that forces itself out as a result of that. It’s something much heavier. To James’ mortification, it’s followed by a pained whine, and it has nothing to do with the headache. He shivers unrelated to fever. He crumbles like a tower of cards. He’s a sandcastle getting washed away by a mischievous wave.

And then loneliness becomes colder than the outside of the blanket despite the futile efforts of the limestone fireplace.

* * *

The worst disadvantage of getting old isn’t the bones becoming more brittle and ears and eyes turning less functional every week. It’s not in the increasing insomnia or that not sleeping for three nights in a row isn’t cool anymore.

It’s the ostensible shrinkage of the prostate.

Jeremy presses his lips together for the third time that day. The heating’s broken because he’s forgotten to drive the car to the service for the fifth week in the row and it’s bound to bite him in the arse some day, and he feels that the only way his stone-cold fingers are going to unclench the wheel is if they’re torn off by force.

Even more, this idiot in a Hyundai in front of him keeps performing Riverdance on the brake pedal. The amount of stop-go sequences Jeremy’s had to endure works his bladder up even further until he can’t stand it anymore.

He parks in front of the nearest pub. The one that has a cute, empty sleigh in front of it for families to take pictures in during the day, and drunk kids to perform shenanigans during the night. Jeremy dashes past it and barely remembers to lock the car, pulling the quickest run he can in ratio to his weight and bladder walls capacity.

Everything goes well eventually and he emerges from the loos unable to resist a pint of beer. It does well to settle his nerves, and so does a casual chat with locals. Reasonable, smiling, cordial people. Not bitter, complaining Scrooges who don’t know what’s best for them in their stubbornness. Some bloke, pissed as hell, thinks it’s hilarious to stuff a Santa’s cap on his balding head. Jeremy shares his good cheer and the laughter of the small gathering, only grateful he isn’t one of those puffed-up bar-fight types.

When he drinks another one and decides it’s enough because he’s driving, now warmed up with fingers he can flex, Jeremy leaves, feeling he’s put enough gap between him and the blasted Hyundai driver. After all, there’s a James May at home waiting to be annoyed.

Only Jeremy soon discovers there is nothing to annoy him with.

Because the top of his car is empty.

The evidently severed straps lay flexed and limp down the sides of the car. One of them is discarded on the pavement like a dead snake. There is a trace of snow thinner than the rest of the car on the roof. It’s brushed one way, so Jeremy can see exactly which way and how it was done.

And it _was_ done. He isn’t imagining things. He isn’t drunk enough.

The biggest tree from the market is gone.

Jeremy stumbles in the snow and leans heavily against the front of the exhibited sleigh. The exhale he makes puffs his breath out in a dense cloud of steam like a dragon awaken from hibernation.

And this dragon is growing angrier by the second.

“On Christmas. Why would somebody steal on Christmas?” mumbles Jeremy.

Well, technically it was in two days, but still. Are you that desperate that you have to steal a day before Christmas Eve? What sort of level of desperation is it?

Or maybe it’s the other scale of the locals — the night version of the sleigh’s occupants — unschooled ruffian youth whose favorite pastime is causing hazard, cutting in queues and rapping “ _Boxes of Bush_ ”.

Theft also, as it seems.

It probably isn’t too late to go buy another, but Jeremy feels the punch of an indirect assault breaking the dam and his mood gets flooded by the blues, so another trip to the fir square is out of the question.

Cigarettes aren’t allowed in these lungs anymore, but maybe going back in the pub and getting completely pissed wouldn’t be so bad, either.

He takes one more dragon breath and makes to push himself away from the sleigh when—

“Santa!”

The voice is much closer than what Jeremy’s eyes have previously scanned and he looks up.

A small boy, maybe about seven is standing around the corner of the pub, eyes fixated straight at Jeremy. Jeremy firstly frowns, looking around and behind. But then sees all the clues of the misunderstanding; the red duffle coat, the newly acquired Santa cap, the three-day stubble his face is sporting, his very built, the sleigh...

The boy is running over to meet him and Jeremy is already tearing the hat off and throwing it over his shoulder into the sleigh, opening his mouth to state the inevitable disappointment.

But the little boy beats him to it.

“It’s okay, I know you’re undercover”, he whispers when he gets close enough. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to be quick, though. I don’t have much time before mum discovers I’m gone. But please, listen to what I have to say? Pretty please?”

Jeremy’s initial intention is to let the cat out of the bag, but something in the boy’s urgent look shielding something else, something deeper, something having to do with obvious lack of sleep and age that shouldn’t be carved into the face of someone so young — it holds Jeremy back and he bites the inside of his cheek in time.

_Well… I suppose… I’ve never been on the other side of the knee._

Jeremy nods once, ready to listen.

“Okay, umm…” suddenly the boy looks sheepish, surveying the snowy ground under his feet and fiddling with his fingers. “I know you’re busy and preparing and you’re on the lookout now, but… I mean I’m sure you know all this, but… My twin brother. He’s been sick for a long time now.”

_Oh, no. Oh, Christ, please no, not that!_

“Mum thinks I don’t now, but I’ve overheard her and the doctor. He says there is nothing they can do anymore. That they’ve tried everything. And it’s only getting worse. He doesn’t want to eat anymore. I can feel his ribs when we sleep in his bed. I’m not usually allowed to, but mum and dad are letting me now. We used to be the same. Now I can’t bear to look at him anymore. I don’t see myself when I face him.”

Jeremy gulps, hoping he’s managing to keep a straight face. It’s made harder when the boy looks up at him, shields broken in weakness that was bound to surface one way or the other, and he has to hold himself back from touching the child in comfort at the sight of him fighting tears.

“I don’t want anything this year. Not that new bike in the “ _Secondhand Rose_ ” shop window, not the PlayStation, not FIFA’s new sticker album, or any rubbish that I’ll be too big for later. I just want my brother to finally start getting better. I’m tired of doctors telling us it’s gotten worse and feeling my brother’s body getting thinner each night and mum crying by herself in her and dad’s room when she thinks no one can hear her. I’m tired of being lied to about how everything is going to be alright when he looks more and more like death every day. Please. I just want him to get better. Nothing else. Just make him better.”

Jeremy is on the verge of suffocation under that wide-eyed gaze, heels digging into the snow and vertigo starting to mush his brain. He wishes to break free of it and look anywhere else, but of course he can’t. He’s completely stupefied and for the first time in his life his throat is devoid of a response, instead blocked by a cluster of things he cannot shout out and he’s going to explode, but—

“Chris!”

The boy flinches and turns around. A blonde woman is frowning disapprovingly from the edge of the road, hair ruffled by fatigue and trials of the day. “Are you out of your mind?! Get over here this instant, why are you talking to that man? What did we say about talking to strangers?”

Before he is going to run off, the boy shoots Jeremy with another pleading gaze and Jeremy has no idea how it doesn’t do it, how it doesn’t fold him over facefirst into snow. But once both the mother and son are out of sight, he takes several minutes to start breathing again, leaning against the sleigh heavily and rubbing his face. His breaths are out of rhythm and compressed like the spaces between his ribs are filled with iron barriers and he has to mentally fight them away.

Once he’s sure he isn’t going to faint, Jeremy stands there, staring straight through the falling snow dumbly like part of the exhibit for several minutes.

Then he runs towards the car faster than his body should be capable, one single name lingering on frozen lips, and drives purposefully, intentionally, faster than is safe, utterly grateful to whoever had decided to rob him this evening.

* * *

Richard has never felt colder in his life.

He found the working pharmacy, way out behind the park and down more streets which were treaded by less and less people until he found it in the older part of the city, a lit green cross announcing the long-sought-for retail shop. Richard can barely think coherently when he is buying what he needs and says the wrong thing at first because the cashier woman apologizes for prying, but that he doesn’t look like he is in final stages of lung cancer.

Finally acquiring what he was searching for the entire afternoon feels less triumphant as he ends up slipping on ice on silent gravel paths of the smaller, vacant park he’s using to cut the trip back short. The balance is made harder to keep given that by this point each step is hard as hell for his exhausted sore legs. In one moment balance completely betrays him and like déjà-vu, he ends up on his back, head colliding painfully with the ground.

Thank goodness he has no groceries this time.

Richard lays like that, getting sprinkled on by soft snowflakes descending lazily from the darkness of the sky, trying to get a hold of himself and doing his best not to produce a crazed sound of frustration bubbling to rift through his temples and throat. A few tears threatening to spill over and freeze in delicate crystals on the sides of his eyes are successfully blinked away.

After the world stops spinning for the second time that day, Richard pushes himself up to his elbows with a miserable groan. Then turns onto his elbows and knees and, like the most pathetic wretch, starts making his way over the frozen gravel on all fours. Thank goodness the park is empty.

“No more… No more”, he whines, crawling towards a short wall and the bench to have a little rest. He can’t feel his nose at all and doesn’t know if it’s running or not. He also can’t tell if he has ears left at all. His toes hurt with each movement and he can barely grip the edges of the bench when he climbs up and crawls with his arms on the wall to lean against it.

As Richard shivers like that, feeling more miserable than ever, he inadvertently looks down over it, expecting to see more trees, more gravel, more lanterns and more cold.

His eyes grow wide as he straightens.

It’s a small square of sorts surrounded by small, decorated houses. A modestly tall fir is occupying its centre wrapped in snakes of colourful blinking lights and a bright orange star on top. People in small groups walk past it, sometimes stopping by to point it to littlest children who’ve just started to learn how to use their legs but safety and warmth of their parents’ arms is a much better alternative.

Groups of kids are having snowball wars. They chase each other around, fall, get back up, shoving snow down each other’s necks, pull each other on sleighs, squealing and laughing like kids do, ignoring shouts of warnings from their parents yelling from the windows that playtime is over and dinner is getting cold. Enticing smells from the kitchens are reaching all the way to Richard and his salivary glands respond in kind, drool overflowing his tongue.

Families are greeting each other on the doorsteps, hugs and kisses are being exchanged, giftbags shoved in hands, kids thrown in the air and caught again. Through one of the windows, a father is lifting his daughter. Her tongue is stuck out in effort to put a hand-crafted angel on top of the tree and she gets awarded a kiss on the cheek after successfully executing her mission.

It’s a completely different world than the emptied park, and Richard can understand the mystery behind its vacancy now.

And then he feels it. A swipe of blissful peace. Head getting completely clear like the air he is breathing. Fulfillment wraps around his lungs and uncoils his stomach. It seasons the air with the most splendid sensation the likes of which one needs to stop in the dark, strain all the senses to comprehend it and embrace that the fog and hoar in the morning are frequent guests and that politics and promises might be lies, but the sun will always be there to rise for a new day.

Kneeling so on the bench leant against the wall, Richard completely melts at the sight like a snowflake in the middle of the palm. He literally slackens, leaning full weight against the stone wall, ignoring the coldness of the snow seeping through his jacket and spreading across his chest and arms like a colony of army ants. But it’s quickly beaten by the warmth spilling from his smile, his eyes, his heart.

He just watches lovingly, surrounded by bliss and utter enjoyment from all sides and despite his current state, finds it very difficult to move away from the sight. The warmth of the lights, scenery of ornaments, smells of dinners, delight of the capricious falling snow and beautiful domestic sights.

_Sod all._

_This. Is perfect._

And he knows there is only one thing that could make it perfectly perfect.

Well… make that two.

Richard stares with the stupidest smile plastered across his face only blinking back to reality when he realizes his arms and torso have gone numb from cold. When he finally straightens up, he almost falls back off the bench onto his bottom, fighting away good few intense shivers and stiffness of the limbs. But they don’t strike him as horrible as they would earlier.

He pulls back the rim of the sleeve on his left hand. Alright. Maybe there’s still time before everything closes.

Richard turns 180 degrees to walk back. This time treading across the ice very, very carefully.

* * *

James fights to pull through the state of half-sleep, not liking the images that surge the line of mind’s vision without his control. They are ugly and unwanted and stickier than his eyelids and no amount of rubbing is enough to cast them away.

The sound of doors opening and getting shut pierces through them like a knife, folding James’ eyelids apart. He lets his eyes adjust to the glows of the house while shuffling from the lobby becomes louder and a huge shadow looms over him.

James painfully blinks with a shivering inhale, tipping his head back and crooking it sideways a little as the silhouette clears out into a face. “Jeremy?”

Jeremy stands by the sofa, hands hovering and face twisted in a grimace of need and taught hesitation. But… there is something else as well. Something James just wasn’t there to witness that created this facial feature.

Then all of confusion and alarm draws back and James’ eyebrows relax back into place, smoothing his forehead and he tips his head back straight, understanding creeping into place, calm and warm. “Jeremy…”

And it’s just enough. Jeremy sits on the edge of the sofa, very close to the other man, and pulls him into a huge, careful hug. Despite predicting it, the wholeness and gentle firmness surprises James all the same.

“I’m so sorry, James. Sorry for being an arse, sorry for nagging, sorry for being such a moron. Just get better, please. I don’t want anything else, I just want you to get better, please.”

James’ face relaxes into a soft smile, loving even, and he gives into the impulse to wrap his arms around Jeremy’s broad back, contradicting to what he is saying next in a low, gentle voice, “You’re going to get sick, you muppet.”

Jeremy’s arms tighten around him. ”I don’t care. Just get better, please, James. I’ll do anything.”

“What’s gotten into you, man”, murmurs James, sliding a comforting hand into the grey curls. He decides he doesn’t really care. That Jeremy’s presence and warmth are all that matters and that he would give anything to keep him here, completely aware how undeserving of it he is after showing him the door the way he did. So he complies with a genuine sigh. “I’m sorry as well. For everything I’ve said. It wasn’t nice or fair. And please stay… If you wish. If not, I completely understand.” An undertone of his hushed voice fails to hide expected disappointment.

Jeremy backs away, leaving his arms just where they are so he can look into James’ face, now benevolent and mellow. “I would love to stay. We both would. And please, James — let us take care of you.” He makes sure the weight of his words is felt when he locks his gaze firmly, unrelentingly against James’. “It’s _alright_.”

James’s response is a cadence of blinks, television glowing against glassy eyes, a cluster of emotions shimmering in there against the glow. And then there is a smile that makes every beautiful wrinkle on his face come to existence and intertwine with each other until he shifts so he can rest his temple on Jeremy’s shoulder.

It’s only then that he realizes how exhausted he is. Of pretending, of stubbornness, of being so stiff-necked. Bitterness is a very short-term satisfaction, and it packs quite a punch. Especially in this state combined with these merry times.

“Sorry I didn’t get the tree”, says Jeremy meekly.

“Stupid sod”, chastises James. “It’s not important. Not now, not ever.” His mouth quirks into a soft smirk. “The material is immaterial.”

“But… Hammond and I can get it tomorrow.” _Reasonable sized this time._ “The chap told me they still work first part of the day. And then we can decorate it together. We can make a quick detour to my flat to get decorations from the attic. What do you say?”

“Mmm. That would be lovely.”

The sigh Jeremy makes is certainly a contended one. Happy even, and he takes a more solid grip of James, his warmth seeping pleasantly through the blanket. “Heating?”

James nuzzles Jeremy’s shoulder, trying to chase away the infernal heat from his temple. “’d love to.”

It’s a blur before Jeremy returns, but now he has shaken the coat and his ugly lopapeysa turns out to be equally warm as the rest of him.

Yes. James closes his eyes, relaxing into Jeremy’s warmth more and more, feeling the headache abating and his eyes growing heavier, not holding so much pain any longer. Perhaps he could allow himself to be watched over occasionally. Perhaps not being alone in some battles has nothing to do with infringed pride. 

Perhaps it’s alright.

* * *

Richard pants his way over the doorstep, seeing one last puff of breath in its visible form, breaking the tranquillity of the inside and finding relief in surprising curtain of warmth that enveloped him. He shuffles with new bags of un-squandered content and sniffs when the frozen snot in his cold-bitten nose instantly liquefies against the temperature change.

He disposes his cargo onto the commode in the lobby and violently shakes like a dog trying to rid itself of frustration, shedding all the suppressed shivers in one go. Unfortunately they don’t stay at bay for long and Richard feels the need to move again against the pulsating protest in his thigh arteries. But instead of carrying the bags into the kitchen, he strides off into the living room.

He finds them on James’ sofa, James snuggled against Jeremy’s bulky side, allowing Jeremy’s fingers to massage his scalp in slow movements. Something that the older man didn’t only not mind, but looked to enjoy as well, side-glancing at May more than minding the telly they are facing. Richard’s chest ache for the palpable warmth of the sight.

Hearing his presence, James opens his sore eyes, squinting up at him with effort; the tipping motion of his head causes Jeremy’s fingers to slide down to cup his nape. “What on Earth happened to you?”

Jeremy is more expressively taken aback by the appearance of their friend. “He’s right, mate. You look like rubbish.”

Richard feels his face and limbs going numb from heat that is forcibly penetrating its way through his body, remnants of snow on his hat, jacket and boots melting and dripping down on the floor as he shivers, creating a miniature puddle around his feet.

“I brought paracetamol”, he stutters.

James winces. It’s not the re-emerging depreciation. It’s the gravity of shivers and exhaustion in Richard’s voice. So his “Hammond”, sounds as pitiful as James May can manage.

“I’ll m-make you tea”, the youngest man gestures with a shaky hand vaguely in the direction of the hallway, gaze aimed nowhere in particular.

“Rich.”

Something with needle sharpness in Jeremy’s voice forces Richard to look into his eyes. They are serious, but gentle.

“Leave your jacket and shoes. Go wash your face and sit down”, he instructs. “Take a breather.”

It takes Richard a moment for the words to sink and his nod of understanding is an unsuppressed whine at frozen fingers and toes and a nose that feels like it could fall off any second.

He staggers back into the anteroom and does a quick, clumsy undressing process, shedding the coat, the wet hat, the soaked boots. He reaches in the low cupboard and pulls a pair of James’ fuzzy slippers which would most certainly succumb to ridicule, but now they feel too good for his numb, itchy toes.

Feeling his head becoming clearer at accustoming warmth, Richard walks to the kitchen to heat up the tea, scrubbing his face with warm water from the sink that hurts his fingers, then opens the box of medicine and pops out a pill.

He sinks into the seat cushion with a sharp sigh that said he won’t get back on his feet not even for the price of full bladder. Although he is careful while handing James the steaming tea and offering the white capsule in the other hand.

“Don’t spill. It’s hot”, he says quietly, because no loudness is needed in this bubble surrounding the sofa.

“You fussy old granny”, mumbles James affectionately, but straightens and sneaks a shy hand out of the blanket’s shelter to handle the mug and gently blow on its surface.

Richard tries to sit casually at first and mind the changing cadres on the television, but the heating and limestone fireplace are still relatively new; soon enough, he draws his feet up still in slippers, curling into himself and crossing his arms, trying to relax into the soft material of the couch and not shiver.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by observant James. He notices Richard’s fidgeting while lightly sipping the beverage and after deciding he’s suffered enough, instructs, “Take one of those cushions and put it in your lap. It’ll do.”

Richard suppresses instinctive response of ‘ _am not a child_ ’ and blindly reaches for one of the larger ones to squeeze it between his folded arms and legs. Oh, yes, definitely better. He squirms around the warm object which is practically getting swallowed against his abdomen by his limbs. But the outsides of his arms and hips still itch with goosebumps.

James tsks at Richard’s miniature shivers and places the mug on the coffee table next to the other one from Richard’s previous attempt. Then he shifts to open one side of the blanket. “Bloody hell, come on then, you pikey. But don’t complain when you wake up next morning with a throbbing headache and itchy throat.”

Richard surprises himself by the lack of hesitation when he immediately shifts to press against James’ side, getting enveloped around the shoulders by the blanket, relishing the solid, instantaneous, proper warmth that washed over him.

“I think I could live with it”, concludes Richard, snuggling happily against the other man. “If you promise to take care of me like I’m taking care of you.”

James’ eye-roll completely goes by him.

They settle for watching the telly, although whatever this is that is on is so boring that its purpose is exclusively mutual fix point and comfortable silence the three men get to enjoy after an afternoon exhausting in a different manner for each of them.

It doesn’t take long for James to domino onto Jeremy’s shoulder again and it seems he is there to stay this time. Jeremy’s tired gaze dips to the top of James’ head and a slow hand goes up to massage the back of it. Their gazes meet, Jeremy and Richard’s, and it’s a different sphere locked around them with a self-destruct key which feels encapturing only in sense of drowning in the gaze of the other.

“You did well”, mumbles Jeremy in his low, fatigue-compassed voice.

Richard softly blinks, each eyelid weighing several tons. “So did you.”

“Nah, I messed up practically everything that was there to be messed up.”

Richard eyes the relaxed James, acknowledges the house that was once bitingly cold and dark and looks at Jeremy with processed thought. “I think you messed up just a little bit less than you usually do.”

Jeremy deeply chuckles. “Guess we both aren’t complete failures, then.”

Richard hums in confirmation, the warmth emerging from all around him finally seeping through, relaxing his muscles and making him sleepy. He insistently pushes his eyelids to remain open, managing to come to agreement at half mast and extends a hand behind James’ head to rest the back of his index and middle finger against Jeremy’s forehead. Gently, he traces them down, against his eyebrow and down his nose, feeling an eyelid flutter closed when Richard’s fingers brush against the eyelashes.

“Guess we aren’t”, he whispers.

Richard’s fingers keep their descent, ghosting over the tip of Jeremy’s nose until they shiver against his lips, barely touching them.

Jeremy closes his eyes and pushes his lips out to kiss the fingers. He does so with such an endearing softness that all of Richard’s adversities vanish from his head like they never even existed. He sits there, watching Jeremy with utmost adoration and allowing the man to take a gentle, but solid hold of his still cold fingers, turn his hand around and place a kiss on the ball of his palm. Mirth and affection mix in the dim blue eyes when he leaves Richard’s hand against his mouth and smiles from behind it, wrinkles boring the sides of his eyes. Richard basks in this attention, raking his mind with ways he would eventually return it very, very thoroughly.

Lack of James’ reaction and feigned reprimanding becomes evident when a small, sharp breath close to a snore comes from where he’s comfortably pillowing Jeremy.

Richard kisses James’ warmth-radiating shoulder and rests his head on it, closing his eyes. The softness of the jumper feels soothing under his heavy head and Richard’s finger unconsciously goes up to his mouth to hook itself against his lips and rest against his teeth just like it did in his early youth. Eyes closed, he lets James’ breathing circulate through him and lull him into a state of nigh-repose.

He decides that no, there is nowhere else he would rather be now. Maybe even tomorrow. Or many days after that.

“A fistful of tears, a bagful of laughter; what is life but a fantasy?” muses James.

“What?” slurs Richard, barely awake. Jeremy is already snoring.

“Nothing. Just slipped into my head…”


End file.
